


Catch Me When I Fall

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [15]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Gen, Team as Family, getting back to normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: A week after his rescue from the Netherworld, Greg’s still having trouble readjusting to normal life.  Spike’s family issues are running high after Lou’s near miss.  Sophie and Shelley aren’t too pleased that their husbands won’t tell them how they managed to save Greg’s life and Sam, in the wake of the Netherworld, is grieving his best friend all over again.  In helping each other, they just might heal their fractured team.





	1. Twisted Senses

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the fifteenth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows “Secrets and Families”.
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

Greg Parker drew in a breath, surveying the obstacle course ahead of him. To his immediate right, his bed loomed as both obstacle and a line marker. His dresser and shelves stood on his left, their corners padded with pillows and all the knick-knacks that usually decorated them safely tucked away. The door to the rest of the apartment was the largest obstacle and padded with both pillows and a cushioning material that Greg suspected was part of a yoga mat.

The SRU Sergeant grumbled a little as he started forward, trying once again to walk without running into anything; an achievement that, even a week after his ‘adventure’, he had yet to reach. This time, he made it past the bed without running into it, but that was largely thanks to wobbling outward toward the shelves about a third of the way down. Gritting his teeth, Greg turned toward the doorway and flinched as a passing truck on the street below revved its engine. The sound hit the man like a baseball bat and he ended up on his knees, panting and clutching his head. When he finally forced himself back up, he didn’t hit the doorway, but that was because he latched onto the frame for support and lumbered past, using the wall as a guide to the living room.

Once in the living room, Greg sank into his chair, worn and discouraged. Team One was still off-rotation, its members subbing for sick or vacationing SRU cops while their Sergeant recovered…a recovery that said Sergeant was starting to doubt would happen. He was much the same as he had been right after his team rescued him, his senses – hearing in particular – off balance and out of true.

His ‘team sense’ had stabilized and he could now keep from ‘sensing’ his team all the time, a fact he was grateful for, as he’d hated the involuntary invasion of his team’s privacy the ‘team sense’ created. He hadn’t ‘turned it on’ since his rescue and was determined not to until he could go back to work, he had enough to deal with, thank you. Plus, he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t invade his team’s privacy _that_ way ever again…not unless it was a life or death situation.

The kids were back at school; he’d only let them hover a day or two before shooing them out of the apartment and back to class. They’d missed enough school on his behalf and their absence meant he didn’t have an audience for his frustrating, fumbling walks and set-backs. Oh, he hadn’t gotten worse, but getting better? That seemed like an impossible dream as day after day ticked by with no improvement.

And the longer he was off-duty, the more he felt like he was letting his team down. They deserved better, especially after risking their lives and souls in a last ditch storming of Hell – or the Netherworld – to get him back. But as Greg struggled to regain a sense of normalcy, he’d found himself wondering if it had been worth it…if maybe his team should have moved on and gotten themselves a Sergeant who wasn’t caught in a tangle of his own making. He’d firmly shoved the thoughts away, determined that, no matter what, he would not make his team’s sacrifice for nothing, would _not_ shame them or himself that way.

Greg pushed himself upright again, refusing to let the failed attempts stop him from trying again. Of course, his resolve was sharply tested when he promptly fell over the coffee table and ended up sprawled in front of the TV. A heavy sigh broke the apartment’s silence. At this rate, he _might_ be able to walk a straight line about the time he retired…if he was lucky.

But Greg hadn’t gotten to this point in his life by giving up, something Morgana and Tolay had learned to their dismay, and he pushed himself up again, using the offending coffee table as a prop. Enough sulking, he had a life to reclaim. This time, instead of moving, he decided to hold still and try to figure out what the root of his problem was. He’d spent a week trying to just ‘get over it’ and walk straight, so maybe it was time to change his approach.

The Sergeant cocked his head and ran his fingers along the coffee table’s surface, concentrating on the feel of the veneer under his hand. It felt right, smooth and polished instead of the minute bumps he’d felt the first two or three days, so Greg looked down at the table, shifting his focus to how it looked. Again, it looked normal, though his sight did narrow in on quite a few nicks and scratches. He made a mental note to ask the kids if they could see the nicks and scratches, but moved on for the moment.

Without moving from his spot, he knelt, trying to judge by sight alone how close he was to the table; here, finally, he ran into trouble for his body position and his vision disagreed on how close he was. Sighing, Greg closed his eyes and let his hand tell him how close he was to the table. After a moment, he opened his eyes again, somehow unsurprised by the extreme level of detail he could see. Apparently, his hearing wasn’t the only enhanced sense. He considered, trying to remember if his vision had been enhanced before his stint in the Netherworld.

Hearing had been the biggest issue, that he could remember very clearly, but vision? That had been much the same as always, at least he thought it had been. In any case, perhaps he’d narrowed down the issue a bit; he wasn’t just dealing with hearing that was much more sensitive than he was used to, he was dealing with ‘sensitive’ vision too. No wonder he’d been misjudging distances, he was used to things looking different…less detailed at farther distances.

With that new discovery under his belt, Greg straightened up again and surveyed his apartment with fresh eyes…and felt his shoulders sink down a little. This meant relearning how to judge the distance to _everything_. But giving up wasn’t an option, so he started small, trusting his sense of touch and his physical position over his sight or hearing. He did try ‘pulling’ both sight and hearing back, as he had the day this mess started, but, once again, he couldn’t. That was probably the most frustrating part, the part most likely to make him lose the job and team he loved. How could he be a cop if loud sounds sent him reeling?

Nor was relearning how to judge distance an easy proposition; he barked his shin as he tried to maneuver around the coffee table, though he _did_ manage to keep from falling again. In hopes of keeping his shins from getting any more bruised, Greg started back towards his padded-to-the-hilt bedroom, only to pause as the doorbell rang. _Who’d visit in the middle of the day?_ the Sergeant wondered, glancing down the hallway. He considered hiding until whoever it was had left, but reluctantly discarded the idea. Instead, he made his way down the hallway towards the door, keeping one hand on the wall to stay relatively steady and balanced.


	2. Renewed Pressure

Spike bit back a groan as he came out of his room and spotted his mother waiting for him. His father was in the living room, his attention firmly focused on the television, never even wavering towards his son. The elder man was a strong believer in the silent treatment, hence the reason Spike hadn’t had so much as word from his father in months, maybe years. In the wake of the Eco-Terror bombings, it was much, much worse, with his father actively turning away from his son, refusing to grant Spike even a glance.

Spike’s mother, on the other hand, appeared to have decided that words were her best weapon, wielding them with desperate precision against her son. **“You see how your father suffers, Michelangelo?”** she began, fixing him with a stern, pleading look. **“He wonders if he will outlive his son, with no one to look after us in our old age.”**

It was useless to argue, but Spike tried anyway. **“Mamá, I have a good job, with good teammates,”** he pointed out. **“We make a difference, we help people. Isn’t that what you and Papá taught me to do?”**

**“You have a brighter future, Michelangelo,”** Mamá replied, her eyes still wide and pleading. **“There are better jobs… _safer_ jobs. For the sake of your parents, could you not do one of those?”**

At times like these, Spike really wished he could tell them the truth…that he was actually _safer_ than most cops were because he and his team had _magical_ backup; he wished he could tell them that Lou hadn’t survived in a freak, one-in-a-million, Hail Mary maneuver. He wished he could tell them that Lou had been saved by a young wizard so determined not to lose anyone else that he’d broken more than a few laws to save Lou’s life. But he couldn’t, so he sighed and shook his head at his mother. **“Mamá, you know I love you and Papá, but I can’t leave my friends, my teammates. We make a difference, we keep the peace, we make _everyone_ safer.”**

**“You will die,”** Mamá cried, wringing her hands, **“You will leave us all alone, with no one to care for us.”** On the couch, Papá shifted, but did not look towards his son. **“Please, Michelangelo, do not do that to us. Find a better job, a young lady of your own, give us grandchildren to spoil.”**

Spike cringed at her words. Sure, he wanted a family of his own, someday in the distant future, but he wasn’t going to change who he was just to make his parents happy. Then he wouldn’t be the son they’d raised, the son they’d been proud of…right up until he’d gone to the academy and become a cop. Unable to face arguing with his mother and enduring his father’s stony silence any more today, he fled for the door and his car.

* * * * *

Of course, once in his car and away from his stressful home situation, Spike was faced with the dilemma of where to go. He wasn’t scheduled for work, as the whole team was off until the Boss could walk a straight line and keep from flinching at every noise in a two-block radius. He could go in and use the workout room, but that didn’t appeal at all to a man who only worked out because he had to. Plus, he’d been chivied in the day before by Ed, who wasn’t about to let their Boss come back to a out-of-shape team.

The bomb tech considered heading to a bar or corner shop to drown his sorrows in beer or coffee, but that didn’t appeal either. What he needed, really needed, was someone to vent to, someone who would listen to all his troubles and woes without judging. Lou came to mind, but when Spike called his apartment, Lou’s mother – visiting ever since the Eco-Terror bombings – apologetically told the tech that Lou had headed out early that morning for parts unknown. Spike tried Lou’s cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail.

For lack of a better plan, Spike pulled into a parking lot right by a city park and sat there for several minutes, watching the kids play in the playground. He smiled wistfully, remembering the days when he’d come here with his parents, running around and getting into plenty of mischief. Spike let out a sigh at the memories, slumping down a little in his seat, the memory of his ‘illusion’ from the Isle of the Blessed coming to mind; his parents supportive and accepting of his job and his teammates. It hadn’t been real, he knew that, but sometimes…sometimes he wished it was real.

He loved his job, loved his parents even more and trying to choose between them felt like ripping his heart and soul in half. How could he give up either part of his family? Sure, being Team One’s bomb tech had started out as just a job – his dream job, sure, but still just a job. But somewhere along the line it had stopped being ‘just a job’ and started to feel like home, like family. Lou was a large part of that; he’d been the first Spike had really latched onto, the first he’d related to, but the rest of his team had swiftly followed, becoming family in every sense of the word.

_Family…_ he turned the word over in his mind, considering another option, another possible destination. At first, the idea of going _there_ was a bad one, the man had more than enough to deal with as it was, he didn’t need Spike’s problems on top of his own. But Spike was feeling alone and bereft enough that it didn’t take long to reconsider; after all, what did he have to lose by asking? Plus, maybe he could get an update on how long it might be before Team One was back at work, saving lives and keeping the peace.

Decision made, Spike started his car again and put it in gear. He pulled out, heading to an apartment complex only a few kilometers away. Once there, he parked and opted to trek up the stairs, nerves mounting the closer he got. He paused at the door, drawing a deep breath to fortify himself, then rang the doorbell. _Here goes nothing._


	3. Unhappy Wives

Sophie Lane was not a happy woman. Ed didn’t often talk about work and she’d come to accept that, but as far as she was concerned, this was _entirely_ different. One minute, Greg had been flat on his back, in a coma, with the doctors all but signing his death certificate. Then Ed, Team One, and Greg’s kids had sailed off without so much as a word, returning scant days later with triumphant grins offset by strangely shadowed eyes to Greg’s miraculous recovery…and Ed absolutely _refused_ to talk about it!

Sophie wasn’t stupid, she was very sure Greg’s collapse had something to do with magic; it didn’t make any sense otherwise. Likewise, his recovery _must_ have been magic-related, but Ed wouldn’t talk about it, not so much as one _word_ to her.

A woman on a mission, she stalked into the garage where Ed had taken to hiding out, giving her husband a _Look_ ; judging by his shifting eyes, he understood her expression, but had no intentions of giving her what she wanted. But instead of simply demanding he tell her, she asked, “Why?” When he gave her a confused look, she elaborated. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

The shadows in his eyes deepened and she could hardly keep herself from shuddering at them. What had hurt her husband so badly? He looked away, down at the parts he’d been tinkering with, and let out a heavy sigh. “It’s not my story to tell, Soph.”

“Then whose is it?” she questioned, watching him closely. “Greg’s?” _Bingo,_ she realized as her husband flinched violently. Sophie approached her husband, laying one hand on his arm. “Please, Ed, I need to know. If only so I have _something_ I can tell Clark; he’s not stupid, he knows just as well as we do that Greg’s collapse and recovery were…unusual, to say the least.”

For several moments, Ed’s jaw worked, her husband considering what he knew and what she’d said. Then he lowered his head with another sigh. “Soph, I can’t; I can’t do that to Greg.” He stopped, jaw working again. “Even the basics are…unbelievable and I was _there_ , Soph. I found him…like that,” he nearly choked at the memory, “We got him back, and part of me _still_ doesn’t believe any of it.”

Sophie leaned against Ed’s shoulder. “Well,” she mused thoughtfully, “It _is_ pretty unbelievable to think that magic’s real, that there’s a whole other world hidden away from this one, and that magic can do…whatever it was that happened to Greg.”

Ed laughed, but it was more a bitter, hurting bark than a laugh. “If you’d told me two years ago that I’d be neck-deep in _any_ of this, I’d have had you committed or something.”

Nestling closer, Sophie queried, “What do we tell Clark?”

Ed shuddered, the feel of it unnerving Sophie. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice suddenly raspy. “Does he know the doctors wanted to…pull the plug?”

“No,” Sophie informed him firmly. “I wasn’t going to put that on him, Ed. And I thought it might be better if it came from you; I was going to ask the day you and the rest up and vanished.” Her voice went tart on the last part, making it clear he wasn’t forgiven for hiding things from her yet.

“Okay, that makes it a little easier,” Ed mused. “I’ll talk to him when I come back, Soph.”

“Come back?”

He nodded, the motion stirring her hair. “Yeah, I need to check up on Greg, see how he’s doing.”

Sophie pulled back and watched as he left, still unhappy, but also unnerved. What had Ed seen or found out that frightened him so much?

* * * * *

Several miles away, Shelley was just as frustrated with her husband as Sophie was. Moreover, she was, for the first time in a long time, tempted to tie Kevin down and demand that he tell her what was bothering him so much.

That first night, after Greg had miraculously recovered and Kevin had come home, Shelley almost hadn’t recognized him; the look on his face reminded her of a little boy who’d just been told Santa Claus wasn’t real. He’d buried it, hugged the girls, read to them, tucked them in like always, and hadn’t said a word to her about it. She’d been patient, waited for him to be ready to talk about whatever had happened, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d thrown himself into little home improvement projects, workouts, and subbing for absent team members in the other SRU teams.

Shelley might have been willing to wait for him, let him work out the pain and loss, but the night before he’d had a nightmare. She’d woken up as he lurched out of bed, an agonized, furious, and grieving cry erupting from him before he hit the floor and woke up. He’d fled so quickly that Shelley hadn’t even had time to ask him what was wrong. She followed him to the kitchen, careful to make sure he knew she was there as he leaned against the sink, his head buried in his hands and suspicious shudders working their way down his back.

“Kevin?”

“Shel? What are you doing up?” He might have fooled her if he hadn’t sounded so…broken and miserable.

Shelley wrapped her taller, larger husband in a hug, pulling him close. “Kevin, talk to me,” she pleaded.

In her arms, he shook, his frame wracked by the sobs he was trying – and failing – to suppress. “Is it worth it?” he asked abruptly.

“Is what worth it?” Shelley asked, confused.

He turned enough for her to see his face, wet with water and tears. “It’s not my story to tell, Shel, but what happened to Sarge…it was magic.” She nodded, she’d suspected as much. “Is magic worth it if it can do… _that_?”

Shelley considered her response carefully. Then her frustration surged up and she countered, “Isn’t that what Sam’s parents decided? That magic wasn’t worth it?” He flinched, but she wasn’t done. “Maybe I don’t know what happened to Greg, but let me ask you this. Did Lance and Alanna have anything to do with hurting him?”

“What? _No!_ ” Kevin blurted. “They’d _never_ hurt Sarge.”

“Why not?” Shelley asked tartly, “Don’t they have magic?”

Nothing more was said, it didn’t need to be, but Shelley had a nasty feeling that whatever Kevin was having trouble with needed to be resolved sooner rather than later. As for herself, well, that magic could hurt someone like it had Greg _was_ unnerving, but you didn’t need magic to hurt someone. If someone had hit Greg with – God forbid – a bat, he might have ended up in the same position, but without the happy ending.

She sighed, considering her husband, who was once more buried in work. She couldn’t give him the answers he was searching for, but she had a fairly good idea who _could_. And while Shelley still couldn’t figure out what was different about _this_ situation as opposed to when her husband had been hit by that nasty curse a year and a half ago, she _could_ see that if Kevin didn’t resolve this, he’d rip himself apart. So she stepped into his line of sight and waited for him to acknowledge her.

“Go,” she ordered quietly. At his quizzical look she huffed and put her hands on her hips. “If you think I can’t tell that you’re struggling, Kevin, you haven’t been paying attention to how you’ve been acting lately. I don’t know what the problem is, but whatever it is, you need to settle it. So, go talk to Greg and ask what you need to; get it out of your system.”

“Sarge has enough to deal with,” Kevin protested.

Shelley gave him a flat look. “He’s your friend and your boss. Go talk to him; see if you can find out when he’s coming back so you can stop climbing the walls in boredom.” At Kevin’s guilty look, she chuckled. “Lord only knows what you’d do if you ever had to leave the SRU, Kevin. Now go on; I don’t want to see you again until you’ve gotten some answers.”

With a salute, he got; after all, it doesn’t do to make your wife repeat herself…especially when she’s right.


	4. Grief Renewed

Sam stared at the picture on his dresser, the picture of his unit before…the incident. It hurt, tore at his insides, to have heard Matt’s voice…to have been forced to choose between his unit and his team. Easy or hard, no in between, that was what Lance had said. He’d chosen hard all right and barely healed wounds had been ripped open once more.

Today, he’d actually screwed up his courage and gone home, wanting reassurance so badly that he’d risked the General’s fury. Instead, his mother had flinched away from him, looking so terrified that Sam felt like a monster. The General had landed the hit that Wordy and Ed had intercepted all those months ago and roared at him to get out.

“Please,” Sam managed, not willing to run quite yet, his heart begging for his parents to _accept_ him again.

His mother actually cried out in fear, cringing away from her own son. “Stay away from us,” her shrill voice demanded.

“Mom, it’s me,” Sam pleaded; he didn’t understand – or maybe he just didn’t want to.

The General shoved him back, towards the door. “Get out! No son of mine would _ever_ work with those pureblood bigots, those little arrogant, manipulative, pureblood _brats_.”

Without thinking, Sam yelled back, “They’re not! Sure, some purebloods are nasty, but the Boss’s kids? They might be pureblood, but they’re _our_ purebloods.” Insults to him, he could take, he’d been taking it all his life, but insults to the kids? No way, no how; they were _kids_ , they hadn’t done anything to the General, hadn’t even been _born_ when the General was kicked out of the magical world. “And one of those purebloods you hate so much? He _died_ saving Boss’s life.”

His mother gasped in shock, but the General was unmoved. “You are no son of mine! Never darken our door again! Get. OUT!” At the final words, the General physically threw his son out the door, not even blinking when Sam fell down the front steps, each thump leaving cuts, scratches, and bruises. At the bottom of the steps, Sam lay there a few moments before groaning and carefully picking himself up. Worn, still grieving, and utterly forlorn, he limped back to his car and drove away.

* * * * *

Sam found himself in the same park he’d found all those months ago the day he’d discovered his new team knew about magic. He limped to a bench and sat down, staring at the fountain. He considered, briefly, going to his aunt, but part of him recoiled at the thought. Madame Locksley, having finally solved the mystery of her brother’s fate, seemed content to deal with Sam as ‘just another Auror.’

Not that he was much better, he hadn’t a clue how having an aunt was supposed to work. To go to her now, with so many wounds, both physical and not…it felt wrong – she wasn’t family, for all that they shared the same blood. She wasn’t like his mother, who had been his strongest support until his little sister died, or familiar, like the General’s anger and disappointment. She didn’t know him, didn’t know his likes and dislikes, didn’t know a dozen or more embarrassing stories like Matt had.

He stopped, grief swamping him again. Matt…his best friend, for a long time, his _only_ friend. Both Squibs, though Matt had been a first-generation Squib, what with his parents and brother being wizards. Both had joined the military at the same time, gone to boot camp together, survived all the tours of duty that had led up to JTF2 and their unit of Squibs doing the wizards’ dirty work. And in the end, Sam had been Matt’s death, betraying him both in reality and in that curséd illusion.

Sam hugged himself harder, feeling the bite of that betrayal and shivering. Grieving the first time had been hard, made harder by the _Veritaserum_ poisoning he’d endured right after it happened, but this time… This time he’d made the conscious _choice_ to betray his unit, choosing Brian Wilkins over them – choosing his _new_ team over them. It hurt, hurt so bad that he wondered how long he could take it. Even worse was the fact that to regret it was to regret saving his boss’s life and he couldn’t do that either.

Matt was gone, he’d never know that Sam had betrayed him in an illusion of a world that never was, and Sarge was _alive_ , alive _because_ Sam had betrayed his best friend in that blasted illusion. But…but Sam had still done it and this time, he didn’t think he could handle it alone.

So…Madame Locksley was out…he didn’t think he could deal with another person turning him away today. Who did that leave? His mind shied away from the next option that came to mind; he didn’t want Jules to see him like this, not now, maybe not _ever_. The option after that wasn’t an option for any number of reasons, so Sam finally decided to limp to his car and go back to his apartment.

* * * * *

Coming back to his apartment only meant coming face to face with the picture on his dresser, a picture that just brought it all back _again_. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t take being forced to face what he’d done again, living through that stupid illusion over and over again until he just wanted to scream.

He fled back to his car as fast he could and started driving. As long as he was moving, doing something, he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to face it. But adrenaline, denial, and cars can only go so far and Sam found himself utterly exhausted with a broken down car a mere two hours later. After he called the towing company and got the car to a repair shop, he found himself just walking, trying to stay warm even though it was actually rather nice out. Eventually, his feet led him to a familiar apartment building and he at last acknowledged that he’d been coming here all along. With slow, reluctant steps, he walked up the path and entered the building.


	5. I Don’t Know If I Can Do This Anymore

Greg fumbled with the lock on his door, reasonably sure that one of his team was on the other side of the door. He tugged it open to see Spike…shoulders slumped and about to turn away in clear disappointment. Spike jumped as he registered that Greg had answered, had opened his door. “Spike?” Greg questioned, though he throttled the urge to ask why Spike had come…that might send his skittish bomb tech running. “Is there a problem?” he settled on.

Spike waffled a moment, his shoulders slumping down farther. “Um, well…” he muttered, rubbing at the back on his neck and looking rather uncertain.

“How about you come in and we can talk a bit,” Greg decided, swinging the door further open. Spike perked up, watching closely as Greg shuffled out of the way. His disappointment when his boss smacked into the opposite wall was clear and pretty much equaled Greg’s own disappointment.

“Guess I don’t have to ask how you’re doing,” Ed drawled, the sound of his voice from right behind Spike making both men jump.

Greg shot Ed a somewhat disapproving look for scaring Spike and shook his head. “No, I guess you don’t, Ed,” he replied as both of his guests came in, looking around at the pillow strewn hallway and trying not to watch as Greg attempted to walk a straight line without help. Greg did manage the straight line, but only because he kept one hand close to the wall, fingertips touching to keep himself from getting too close or too far. He watched the wall out of the corner of his eye, trying to correlate where he _knew_ he was as opposed to where it _looked_ like he was.

Once in the living room, Greg waved his two guests to the couch and navigated to his chair, relieved when he didn’t smash into the coffee table with his shin _again_. Of course, he ruined that by nearly missing his chair as he sat down, but Spike’s tiny, alarmed squeak warned him before he ended up on the floor. Ed’s eyes were just as focused, just as watchful, but his team leader looked to be holding back any comments or remarks. Spike’s mobile face was much easier to read: he looked stressed, worried, disappointed.

“How are you two doing?” Greg asked, pinning them both with a look and a raised eyebrow. Somehow he didn’t think it was an accident that they’d both found their way here in the middle of the day.

Spike shrugged, almost visibly shutting down. Greg suppressed a sigh, he had a sneaking suspicion that Spike’s family issues were rearing their heads again; why Spike’s parents couldn’t be proud of their son was beyond him.

Ed’s jaw tightened, a muscle working as he too considered his answer. Abruptly, he announced, “Sophie’s asking questions, says Clark is too.”

Greg cast his team leader a puzzled look. “You haven’t told her, Eddie?”

Ed shook his head. “That would mean telling her everything, Greg. I don’t think she’d react all that well to you…well, you know.”

Greg sighed, sinking down a little. “Eddie, I can’t tell you what to do, but remember, the reason I’m in this mess is because _I_ was keeping secrets.” He considered a moment. “For what it’s worth, Eddie, as far as _I’m_ concerned, you can tell her everything. Then maybe the two of you can figure out what to tell Clark; he’s a smart kid, he’s probably put together quite a few pieces anyway.”

“And what do I tell her when she asks when we’re going back to work?” Ed asked, his tone casual, but his gaze intent.

The Sergeant grimaced, not responding at first. Deciding that a demonstration would do more than words, he pushed himself upright and picked his way to between the coffee table and the television. “How close do I look to the table, Eddie?”

Ed cocked his head, looking confused at the question, but game, he answered, “Maybe an inch or two from it.”

Greg considered his next question a moment. How to make this clear… “Bear with me a moment, guys. How many scratches can you see from where you are?”

Now the two traded startled looks, but turned their attention to the table. Ed actually got up and came closer to look. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “Maybe a dozen or so?”

Blunt, Greg announced, “I see at least twice that,” and carefully knelt to trace his finger over the lightest one. When Ed stared, he lifted the finger to let Ed take a good look. Ed scrutinized the spot himself, getting in close to eyeball the scratch Greg could see, but he couldn’t.

Spike got the point, letting out a low whistle. “Your vision’s better, Boss?”

Greg shrugged, waiting for Ed to move back before rising to a standing position. “Yeah, Spike, but between the vision and the hearing, I’m misjudging distances, sprawling over furniture, and, yes, still flinching at loud sounds.”

The identical dismay both showed might have been comical under different circumstances, but Greg wasn’t laughing. His point, that it was going to be a _long_ time, if _ever_ , before he could trust his own senses again, was made. Before either could voice the thoughts written so clearly on their faces, the doorbell rang again. All three swung around, looking towards the door, and Greg sighed.

“I’ve got it,” Spike volunteered, shooting up from his chair.

“Don’t run off,” Greg chided as playfully as he could; he was grateful when Spike managed a smile and a nod at the chide.

* * * * *

Wordy was startled when Spike opened the door, rearing back in surprise. “Spike?”

“Hey, Wordy,” Spike greeted him. A quick nudge and the two were in the hallway outside Sarge’s apartment.

“Sarge okay?” Wordy questioned.

“What? Oh, well…sorta,” Spike admitted. “His hearing’s still wacky and he just told us his vision is too.”

Wordy straightened at that. “What’s wrong with his vision?”

Spike shrugged. “He can see scratches Ed and I can’t; it’s like he’s got super-vision or something.”

For a moment, Wordy cocked his head, thinking, then he pushed past Spike and into the apartment. Spike trailed after him, almost hovering as Wordy entered the living room, only a little surprised to see Ed on the couch. “Hey, Sarge,” the brunet began, but he didn’t wait for a reply, just cut to the chase. “So…eagle vision?”

The brunet almost smirked when the three other men straightened and stared at him. Sarge’s eyes narrowed, as he considered Wordy’s remark, turning it over in his mind. Wordy could practically see when the pieces slid into place. “Or…” Sarge replied, slow, considering, “Gryphon vision…gryphon hearing.”

Spike piped up without thinking, “Like Lance could see the entrance into that fortress from the top of the cliff.”

Wordy’s shudder was visible and he knew it; he’d never, _ever_ tell anyone that his nightmares featured Team One being too late to save their Sergeant and their Sergeant being forced by Morgana Le Fay to execute them, one by one. He forced his thoughts away from the nightmares and back onto his teammates. “You can’t control it?” he asked, referring to the vision.

Sarge shook his head. “Not the vision, not the hearing,” he admitted. “At least I’ve been able to keep the ‘team sense’ off.”

Wordy shifted, noting that Ed did too…none of them had been happy – or comfortable – with the realization of just how much information the ‘anchors’ had been giving their Sergeant about them. “So it’s probably going to be awhile before you’re back?” he queried, one brow hiking as he spoke.

Sarge’s shoulders slumped and he began making his careful way back to his chair. “I don’t know, Wordy. If I have to relearn how to judge distance, how to keep from reacting to loud sounds…” He looked utterly discouraged. “I don’t know if I _can_ do that, guys.”

Not a single one of them knew what to say to that…knew how to make their Sergeant feel better or how to help him. When the doorbell rang a third time, they didn’t even jump, just looked toward the door with resignation.


	6. Stronger Together

Sam was caught off guard when Ed opened the Boss’s door, looking just as worn and discouraged as Sam felt. Ed took one look at him and straightened up with a sharp, “What happened to you?”

Sam flinched at the tone, then jumped at Wordy’s startled, “Sarge?” from inside the apartment. Moments later, Ed had to dart to the side to avoid being run over by the stocky, narrow-eyed Sergeant, who took in Sam’s bedraggled appearance, mouth tightening with displeasure, and then shifted his gaze to his team leader. “First aid kit’s in the bathroom, Eddie.”

“Copy,” Ed acknowledged, vanished back down the hallway.

The blond sniper opened his mouth to say he was fine, only to be pinned with Boss’s brown orbs, practically _daring_ him to protest. He closed his mouth and tamely followed his boss to the living room, noticing the older man’s fingertips just grazing the wall as he walked. Wordy, looming in the doorway to the living room, noticed the same thing Sam had; his mouth tightened in unhappiness.

It was Ed who tended to Sam’s scrapes, nicks, cuts, and bruises, though Sarge hovered, watching closely and catching a few that even Sam hadn’t. Wordy and Spike were just _there_ , a reassuring presence in the background and Sam found himself relaxing as he hadn’t been able to in his apartment or at the park. As Ed cleaned up the kit, Sam looked around his boss’s apartment, taking in the homely setup and the well-loved furnishings. The shelves were bare of knick-knacks, but Sam was pretty sure that was due more to Sarge’s current difficulties than because he didn’t have any.

“Nice place,” he observed, trying to divert attention from his own problems.

Boss wasn’t so easily sidetracked, he leaned forward, an intense look on his face. “Sam, what happened?”

Sam huddled in on himself, unable, for a moment, to do anything else. Then he forced it out into the open. “Oh, you know, Sarge…went home, thought maybe I could talk to my parents…” he looked away from his teammates, feeling their incredulous attention on him even as he refused to look.

Spike let out a low whistle, remarking, “If that’s their way of talking, I think I’ll stick with my Papá’s silent treatment and Mamá’s nagging.” He flushed as attention shifted in his direction, though Sam noticed that Sarge was sad, not surprised.

Sam countered with, “I’d take nagging any day over my mom actually being _scared_ of me.”

“Scared of you?” Wordy blurted, “Why? I mean, I remember you saying she’s afraid of magic, but it’s not like you have any, right?”

The blond looked down. “I’m working with wizards,” he replied softly. “As far as my parents are concerned, that’s just as bad. It was different with JTF2, at least there I was in the military, like the General wanted, but now…” He shrugged. “Now, I’m in a team the General disapproves of, working with wizards, and up to my neck in magic. That’s probably how _they_ see it.”

Ed sighed, pulling attention away from Sam. “Sophie’s mad at me for not telling her about the Netherworld or what happened to Greg.”

Understanding, Wordy cut in next. “Shelley thinks I’m not handling ‘whatever happened’ and that I need to get my head on straight again.”

There was silence for almost a minute; then Spike observed, “We’re _all_ a mess, aren’t we?”

The laughter was forced and died out far too soon, but the ice was broken. Boss’s attention was now on Wordy and the eyebrow was up again as he regarded the brunet constable. “So, what’s going on with you, Wordy?”

* * * * *

Wordy cringed, feeling like a hypocrite, a jerk. He sighed, running a hand over his head. “I don’t know, Sarge,” he admitted, “I really don’t.” He fumbled, then blurted, “Is magic really worth it if it can cause what happened to you?” He sucked in a breath as soon as it was out, wishing he could take the words back, but knowing he couldn’t, he looked away, shame flooding him.

At first, Sarge didn’t say anything, clearly caught off guard that one of the team members most comfortable with magic was changing his tune. “Wordy?” Wordy flinched again at the gentle tone. “Look at me,” Sarge ordered; reluctantly, Wordy dragged his gaze to Sarge’s. “This really got to you, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Wordy acknowledged.

“Do you know what I’d change about the past two years, Wordy?” Sarge questioned, his eyes intent, clear, focused. Wordy shook his head. “Not a thing, Wordy.” The man paused, watching as his constable’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t change a _thing_ , because changing one thing might change _everything_.”

A sheepish look crossed Sarge’s face. “I might wish I’d been smarter, more observant, more willing to get you guys involved; then maybe we could have avoided _this_ whole, rotten mess, but I still wouldn’t change anything. Is magic worth it? I don’t know, Wordy, but I _do_ know that if I turn my back on magic, I have to turn my back on _mio nipotes_ and I’m not going to do that. Not for _anything_ , no matter how hard it gets, even if I can never walk a straight line again.”

Wordy drew back, embarrassed and upset at himself. “I, uh, sorry, Sarge.”

His Sergeant shook his head. “No, Wordy, better that we get it out in the open. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

A sharp nod. “Yeah, Sarge, I hear you.”

There was a moment of silence between the men, then Sarge cocked his head. “What about this got to you so badly, Wordy?”

That was easier to say, but Wordy stiffened, not wanting to hurt his boss or remind him. When Sarge just waited patiently, Wordy gave in again. “I, um, uh…” Looking away, running his hands over his head and face, he finally admitted, “The part where you lost your soul, Sarge. I mean, if magic can do _that_ …”

“Not just any magic can, Wordy,” Sam put in, drawing the brunet’s startled gaze. “Magic that messes with the soul is almost _always_ the darkest of the dark; magicals would probably freak out over something like this just as bad as we did.”

“What isn’t dark about messing with someone’s _soul_?” Wordy blurted, dismayed that any magic related to the soul wasn’t dark and forbidden.

“The _Fidelius_ ,” Sam replied at once. “It’s a spell that hides information about a location in the soul of one person: the Secret Keeper. Afterwards, _only_ the Secret Keeper can tell others the secret; even if you know the secret, you can’t tell unless _you’re_ the Secret Keeper.” The sniper shrugged as much as he could. “Technically Soul Magic, but not dark.” At the stares he got, he flushed a bit. “They used it during the Wizarding Wars,” he mumbled.

Wordy almost gaped, but he forced himself to stop and think. Was he still a little scared about magic? Yeah, but Sarge made a good point; walking away from the kids _wasn’t_ an option. And Sam’s point, that Soul Magic was normally dark and not used, went a ways toward alleviating _some_ of Wordy’s concerns. Still, it would be quite awhile before Wordy was as blasé about magic as he had been in the beginning.

* * * * *

Spike nibbled at his lower lip, listening to Wordy’s doubts, thinking about Sarge’s problem. An idea occurred to him, at first so ridiculous that he dismissed it out of hand and kept trying to think of something, anything that might help with Sarge’s vision and hearing issues. The idea he’d dismissed came floating back, bringing along a stubborn _‘why_ wouldn’t _it work’_ thought with it.

The problems at home hadn’t gone away, but being here, part of the team, made them fade in importance; his team needed him and he wasn’t going to let them down. So he poked at the idea, turned it over for holes, then shoved it away again as the biggest hole made itself known again. He paused, remembering something else. When Ed had seen Sam and exclaimed over the visible cuts and bruises on the sniper, Boss had been out of his chair and through the doorway so fast that Wordy had nearly been knocked over. And Boss hadn’t hit the wall even _once_. The idea came back a third time, bringing along another theory for the ride. _What if, what if?_

“Boss?” he ventured, bringing attention back to himself. “What if you tried turning your ‘team sense’ back on…see if your vision and hearing gets better?”

* * * * *

Greg recoiled at the very idea, saw the other men recoil as well. To invade his team’s privacy, all on a ‘what if’ idea for _his_ benefit, it rankled. But Eddie was looking thoughtful, turning his gaze towards Sam and Wordy in silent question. “Worth a try,” he opined, turning towards his boss and hiking both brows.

“But,” Greg instinctively protested, his whole being in revolt at the very idea.

“Sarge,” Wordy broke in. “We don’t know if it will work or not, but either way, you already know where most of us are _and_ you’re a good enough negotiator to know how we’re feeling anyway.” He fidgeted a moment, then added, “Sarge, we didn’t go through the Netherworld to lose the team like this.”

“What Wordy said,” Sam agreed, a beat before Ed or Spike could.

So Greg bowed to his team’s encouragement and, at long last, flicked his ‘team sense’ back ‘on.’ Within moments, he could sense his team, both in his living room and further away; his sight sharpened further, alarming him, then stabilized, ‘pulling’ back as he instinctively tugged at it.

Careful, Greg pushed himself upright and walked around Wordy to the coffee table. Though Sam and Wordy looked confused, Spike and Ed were not. When the Sergeant crouched, he judged the distance perfectly, the table itself looking much the same as it always had. Curious, Greg tried to shift his sight back ‘up’ and felt it respond. The additional nicks and scratches reappeared, but as he rocked back on his heels, he didn’t overbalance, didn’t fall. Wordy shifted, ready to catch him if needed, but Greg didn’t need help. _This_ was the piece he’d been missing, the stabilizing factor his sight and hearing needed. A car roared past the apartment building, revving its engine loudly and Greg didn’t even flinch. He looked up at his team, the answer to their silent questions clear.

Spike let out a sigh of relief. “It works,” he concluded.

“Yeah, but…” Greg confirmed and protested all at once. “I can’t just…”

“Yes, you can,” Sam countered.

Spike broke in again. “Plus, I was thinking, maybe it’s just temporary that you need the ‘team sense’ to keep everything balanced.” He shrugged at the looks he got. “It’s only been a week, after all. Feels a lot longer than that, but it makes sense that you need more help right now, Boss.”

Ed considered. “So, maybe at some point Greg won’t need his ‘team sense’ on all the time?”

Spike shrugged again. “No way to know right now, Ed, but maybe.”

“I’ll keep trying,” Greg said firmly. “You all deserve your privacy.”

Sam shook his head. “If that’s a choice between privacy and getting back to work, I’ll take the work option.”

“Seconded,” Wordy agreed. “Shelley’s about ready to kick me out of the house anyway.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if Soph feels the same,” Ed mused. He cast a look at Greg. “How about you try turning your ‘team sense’ off again in about week, see how it goes then? If you can’t walk a straight line, you turn it back on and try again the next week.”

It took several long minutes, but Greg finally inclined his head in agreement.

“So, we’re back?” Spike asked hopefully. The others gave Greg equally hopeful looks.

Greg drew in a breath, looking around at his team…his family. “Yes, Spike,” he agreed. “We’re back.”

“It’s about time,” Jules remarked from behind them; as they turned they saw her and Lou holding bags of takeout and various snacks. “Good thing Soph and Shelley told us where you guys were.”

Lou’s grin lit the room, mirrored by Spike. “Someone go get the drinks outta my car, it’s _party time_.”

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd cut!
> 
> I hope ya'll enjoyed the latest installment. And do be on the lookout for the next story in the series, "Anything for Family", which will start on Friday, September 22nd, 2017.


End file.
